


isn’t all about what you see (how do i look to you?)

by weeabooty



Series: adhd??? i think you mean GAYdhd amirite ladies [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (VERY brief and non-explicit. it's literally one line and is incredibly unspecific), Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Emotionally Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Gen, Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Insecure Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Stiles Stilinski Has ADHD, Stiles Stilinski-centric, Suicidal Thoughts, an adhd!stiles fic written by an actual adhder, bc i hate when stiles adhd is used as comic relief or just completely glossed over, being unreasonably upset over getting a C, how antibiotics saved the world but will also kill us all one day, i guess??, this has a rlly huge focus on that adhd in fact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23404396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weeabooty/pseuds/weeabooty
Summary: Stiles just doesn't understand what he's doingwrong.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: adhd??? i think you mean GAYdhd amirite ladies [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718314
Comments: 55
Kudos: 735
Collections: Sterek Goodness, escapism (to forget that the world is a burning hellscape)





	isn’t all about what you see (how do i look to you?)

**Author's Note:**

> or: stiles stilinski, as told through 10 adhd symptoms
> 
> listen. i just wanted an excuse to project my adhd bullshit onto SOMEONE and stiles and i are Basically The Same so. here we are. this is the longest fic i've written in actual years.
> 
> also, in the interest of full disclosure: i've only seen 3.5 episodes of teen wolf. but i HAVE read 700+ sterek fics and i visit the wiki a lot so i feel qualified to write this. this takes place in a very nebulous time and all i know is that erica and boyd aren't dead bc FUCK that noise and gerard kidnapping stiles isn't mentioned but it cld have happened or not, up to u. stiles is 17 in this btw so that probably places it somewhere in canon time but i rlly don't care too much abt that. 
> 
> tl;dr: don't @ me abt it being ooc or inaccurate pls
> 
> all the adhd symptoms come from [here](https://www.additudemag.com/adhd-in-adults/)
> 
> title is from scrawny by wallows which is literally just stiles as a song pls go listen it's a bop
> 
> EDIT bc i forgot to say this: i have adhd and all of stiles' symptoms are ones i have and i wrote their manifestations based on how they show up for me. if you have adhd your symptoms and their presentations might be different. this was entirely self-indulgent and i'm completely fine with that so i hope you enjoy it but keep in mind this is not a meant to be a guide on what adhd is "supposed" to be like bc there's no one-size-fits-all for adhd, it's just based on my personal experiences. keep it easy n keep it sleezey my dudes xoxo gossip girl

**_i. poor attention to detail_ **

  
  


“Stiles.” 

Stiles’ head snaps up from where he’s been toying with the eraser shreds on his desk. The classroom is empty; having a “S” last name means he’s been at the bottom of the list since kindergarten. He shoulders his backpack and strolls up to Mrs. Shelton, smiling as he takes his graded essay. He actually feels really good about this one, thinks he did a good job, is genuinely proud of his work. Maybe he didn’t have a _ton_ of time to perfect it between chasing a pack of puppies around town but he enjoyed the subject matter and didn’t get stuck writing it _at all,_ which is a novelty. 

The smile slips off his face as Mrs. Shelton hands him the stack of paper face down. 

“Gotta say, this one wasn’t your best work, kid,” she says, not unkindly. “It was well organized and well researched, but I noticed quite a few grammar problems, and there were places where you lost focus and strayed from your thesis. Maybe try proofreading a few more times, or reading it aloud to catch those little mistakes.”

Stiles has always liked Mrs. Shelton for the two years of English she’s taught him. She’s funny and doesn’t bullshit, but isn’t overly critical. Never takes points off without adding a little note about how to avoid it next time. 

He turns the paper over in his hands and stares at the glaring _78_ circled in red ink.

Later, in his room, he looks over the essay and finds the mistakes easily, even without Mrs. Shelton’s commentary written in the margins. They’re all careless mistakes, stupid things he shouldve caught. Basic grammar, skipped words, irrelevant details. It’s all stuff he _knows,_ and he _knows he knows it,_ and yet he still fucked it up ‘cause he wasn’t paying close enough attention. 

He sighs and gets started on his Spanish homework, but the image of that bright red _78_ staring up at him lingers at the back of his mind.

**_ii. poor time management_ **

  
  


“Dude, are you done yet?” Scott whines from his seat on Stiles’ bed.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m almost finished. Chill out, we have plenty of time ‘til the meeting. Just wanna get done with these last few articles.”

“Stiles,” Scott starts, and even though he’s facing away, Stiles knows his eyebrows are furrowing and his mouth is drawing down into a confused pout. “We have to be there in half an hour. It’s already 5:30.”

_That_ gets his attention.

“ _Fuck_ , really? Shit, I haven’t done my homework yet.” Guess it’ll be another sleepless night for him. He gathers up his binder where he keeps all his supernatural research (which he lovingly calls the X-File) and hastily shuts down his computer.

“You haven’t? You had all weekend…” Stiles knows Scott doesn’t mean anything by it, but it still punches him in the gut, because it’s the truth. He had all weekend long to get his schoolwork done, but he just. 

Didn’t.

“C’mon, Scotty, you know I’m a serial procrastinator. I’ll be fine, let’s get to the meeting.” He tries to laugh it off, grinning at Scott as they hop into the Jeep, but it nags at him. 

He had two whole days to get his work done, there's no excuse for his backpack to lie untouched on his bedroom floor, but it does. He tries to justify it to himself on the way to Derek’s, telling himself he got busy —cleaning the house, cooking for his dad, researching the monster of the week, — but he also spent hours playing video games or reading the novel he picked up at the bookstore last week. Hours that definitely could’ve been spent doing his work, if only he planned better.

**_iii. forgetfulness_ **

  
  


Stiles hears the front door slam shut, announcing his father’s arrival, but he doesn’t really register it. For once he has some downtime: his homework is done and packed away, there’s no pressing research that needs to be done for the pack, and dinner is gonna just be reheated pasta from the night before. He’s sprawled out on his bed, flipping through a book on werewolf culture and tradition as Parks and Recreation keeps him company. Derek gave him the book forever ago, after he’d bugged him for days over how werewolf culture is different from human culture. 

Okay, maybe “gave” is too kind a word. It was more like Derek shoved the heavy thing into his chest after he asked too many embarrassing questions about courting and mating.

It’s not his fault Derek blushes so pretty, _okay_ ? Stiles is _not_ pulling Derek’s pigtails, no matter what Erica says, but Derek’s blush starts on the tips of his ears and he gets this adorable little pout when he’s flustered and Stiles would just really like to kiss that pout, see how far he can make that pretty flush spread- 

“ _Stiles!_ ”

Well. Somehow he’s being cockblocked from _himself_ , and isn’t that sad. 

“Get down here!” his dad bellows from downstairs. Fuck, he sounds pissed. Stiles quickly tries to run through everything he’s done in the past week that could’ve evoked this response, but comes up empty. He hasn’t even been tardy for school. 

“ _Now_!”

“Okay! Okay, I’m coming down right now, chill out!” Stiles yells back, shoving a spare receipt into the book to act as a bookmark and making his way downstairs. He’s honestly pretty annoyed at being interrupted. He hasn’t done a single thing that warrants his dad being pissed at him. He knows they’ve been rocky lately, and Stiles hasn’t been the best kid, but he’s not cool with being scolded when he hasn’t done anything wrong for once.

No matter how guilty he feels for what he has done wrong. 

“What’s up, Daddi-o?” He jokes as he hits the bottom of the stairs. 

“I asked you to do _two things_ this morning, Stiles.” Okay, so Stiles’ attempt to diffuse failed completely. “Do you remember what they were?”

“Uhh… no?”

“For God’s sake, I don’t ask a lot from you, Stiles.” Stiles almost flinches at his father’s tone and the weight of the guilt settling in his chest. “But I expect you to at least do the basic chores when I ask.”

“What did you ask me to do?” He wracks his brain trying to remember his dad asking him to do anything this morning, but all he remembers is sleepily eating his Froot Loops and his dad saying he’d be home for dinner.

“Really? I asked you to do the dishes and the laundry before I left for work-” Oh. Oh _fuck,_ Stiles does remember now. “And you promised they’d be done when I got home. This is the third time this week you’ve blown off the chores I asked you to do, Stiles.”

“I know, I’m sorry, I just-”

“Forgot?”

Stiles _does_ flinch at the humorless laugh in his dad’s voice. 

His dad sighs, letting himself slump down a bit. “Kid, I get that you forget things easy, but I don’t think it’s too much for me to expect you to do what you say you’ll do. I can't do it all, Stiles. You have to help out too.”

Eyes downcast, Stiles swallows. “I know, Dad. I’m sorry, I’ll do better.”

The look on his dad’s face when he glances up tells him exactly how much his dad believes that. 

The lead ball in his gut gets heavier. 

“I’ll get it done right now, okay? You just relax, and I’ll get everything done so quick it won’t even matter.” He plasters a fake, brittle smile on his face as he beelines for the full sink. He _will_ do better. He’ll prove his dad wrong and make him proud. He’ll stop letting him down like he has ever since his mom died. 

He has to.

The disappointed sigh coming from behind him as his dad walks to the living room cuts like a knife. 

**_iv. impulsivity_ **

They’re going to die. 

The wyvern (they've got goddamn _dragons_ trying to kill them now, imagine that) rears back and _roars_ , and they can’t win.

Erica is propped against a nearby tree, which she was thrown into. There’s a nasty gash in her stomach and it looks like she’s desperately trying to hold her insides, well, _inside_ long enough for her skin to knit back together, pale and sweating and obviously in agony. 

Boyd managed to get a few good swipes in, but his arm is hanging at an odd angle and it’s hard to tell how long he can keep this up. Isaac got knocked out a while ago, the soft rise and fall of his chest the only indication he’s still alive. Scott keeps lunging at it to inflict any damage he can and gets damaged in return each time, and Allison is perched somewhere in the trees, letting arrows fly to distract the wyvern because they don’t actually pierce the thick skin. Stiles is bruised and bloody, half his shirt shredded, deep cuts littering his entire body.

And Derek-

Derek looks like hell. 

There’s a chunk missing from his left shoulder, but he’s still ripping at the dragon’s wings, its back, its neck, anything he can dig his claws into. The wyvern screeches whenever he finds purchase and doubles down on its attempts to get Derek off, including using its long neck to crane around and blow flames onto its own back, just barely missing Derek. 

If the fucker was focused on something else, maybe Derek could actually get deep enough to kill the thing-

_Oh._

Stiles is running towards it before he knows his feet are moving.

“Hey!” he shouts, at the very top of his lungs. “Look over here, you overgrown iguana!”

The dragon falters, glancing at Stiles, but paying him no real mind.

Fuck.

“ _Look_ at me, asshole!” What can he do, what can he- Oh, his _bat_! He just has to get close enough to use it. 

Stiles races towards the dragon's body, dodging distracted swipes from scaly, taloned hands and swings at any part he can get to. The wyvern stops focusing on Derek, finally looking down to where Stiles is frantically beating his barbed-wire-covered and rune-enhanced baseball bat against one thick leg. It doesn’t do a ton of damage, but the protection runes burn into leathery skin enough that the dragon is sufficiently distracted.

Unfortunately, that means it’s focus shifts elsewhere, mainly to Stiles, and _fuck_ he did not think this through.

He tries to run from the talons approaching him, but the wyvern grabs him like he’s a rag doll, and _Jesus Christ_ those nails are sharp, and it’s grip is so strong, and Stiles _hears_ his rib _crack-_

Then he can _breathe_ again, except he _can’t_ , not really, since he’s dropping several feet to the unforgiving ground. 

On his way down he catches a glimpse of Derek yanking his claws out of the wyvern’s slashed throat, and he thinks _maybe it wasn’t for nothing._

**_v. extreme emotionality and rejection sensitivity_ **

  
  


Stiles wakes slowly, but that doesn’t mean it’s peaceful. 

He’s distantly aware he’s in a hospital, based on the beeps and the cannula tickling his nose and the general scent of misery and antiseptic. But his awareness of his surroundings takes an immediate backseat to the “awareness” currently coursing through his body.

His fucking shoulder hurts, his fucking head hurts, his fucking leg hurts -- _why_ isn’t he being pumped full of morphine _right the fuck now_?

He feels his eyebrows furrow and his face scrunch up and he gasps but his eyes are still too heavy to open. He’s tensing up all over, which makes his shoulder and his leg hurt even worse, and thinking about why that might be makes his head throb fiercely. Then there’s a hand on his and some of the pain eases, just enough for him to relax and stop fucking himself over. 

After a moment, he gathers his strength and lifts his eyelids carefully. 

Only to be met by a faceful of angry alpha werewolf. 

“What the fuck were you _thinking,_ Stiles?” Derek growls, literally _growls_ , glaring into Stiles’ bleary eyes like he wishes he could set him on fire. 

Well, too little too late, Derbear. The wyvern coulda’ done that for you, but you killed it. 

_With my help,_ Stiles’ delirious brain whispers, making a wisp of pride curl in his heart. _He’s_ the reason Derek’s sitting here, _he_ protected the pack. He did something right for once, he’s sure of it. 

But then why does Derek look like he’s one ill-timed dog joke away from raging out in the middle of Stiles’ hospital room?

They stare at each other for a long moment, not saying anything. Why wasn’t Derek saying anything? Oh, oh, right! Question. Asked a question. What Stiles was thinking, okay, he can answer that.

“I was thinking, well. I thought that if the thing was distracted you could get your murder-claws in better. And then I realized I had a voice, and a bat, and legs. So I just. Distracted it. So I could help, ‘cause you guys were all… hurt. Real bad. Wanted to protect the pack, and I did, I helped, Der, are you proud of me?” Okay, maybe they _were_ giving him pain meds, or the wolfy pain-drain had more side-effects than listed on the bottle, because as much as he’s desperate for approval he doesn’t usually _beg._

Derek snorts, letting go of Stiles’ hand. Stiles misses the warmth and the sweet, sweet relief it offers as soon as his brain catches up. “ _Proud_ of you? You could’ve _died._ You could’ve gotten me, you could’ve gotten the rest of the pack _killed._ Your stunt meant the rest of the pack had to scramble to catch you while they were already injured.” Stiles flinches. Okay, so maybe he hadn’t thought about that. “And you _still_ got hurt. Broken shoulder, sprained knee, one fractured rib, two bruised ribs, severe concussion,” Derek lists his injuries out like a chore list, like nuisances he has to deal with but doesn’t want to. “You risked _everyone_ and for what? Because you wanted a little credit? Wanted to say you fought a dragon?”

“What?” No, no, that’s not right. That’s not right at all. He’d been trying to _help,_ why is Derek- “I just wanted to _help_! I was trying to help you, you weren’t able to land any hits, it was trying to burn you, I just wanted to-”

“You call that _helping_ ?” Derek all but snarls at him. Stiles feels tears prick behind his eyes. No, no, _no_ . This is too much, he’d been- he’d been trying to make sure everyone was okay, he just fucking _woke up_ , this is too much, he’s breathing too fast. “That wasn’t _helpful_ , Stiles.” He spits the word like a curse, and Stiles digs the nails on his good arm into his palm. “If you actually gave a shit about anyone in the pack you wouldn’t make us vulnerable when we’re already weak. You need to stop being so goddamn self-centered-”

And suddenly he’s angry, he’s fucking _furious._ Furious and so, deeply hurt. 

How _dare_ Derek, how fucking _dare_ he. 

“Fuck you.” Stiles hisses, with every ounce of venom he can muster. “ _Fuck. You._ ”

Self-centered? Self-fucking-centered? Everything he does is for other people. Every single fucking action he takes is for everyone but himself. If it were up to him alone he wouldn’t _be here_ right now. Not in the hospital, not in the pack, not in Beacon Hills. 

If he only thought about himself, he’d be six feet under and long decomposed by now. 

“Stiles-”

“Get the fuck out.” Stiles knows there’s tears leaking from his eyes, and he hates himself for them, even if he makes no move to wipe them away. 

“I didn’t mean-”

“What part of get the _fuck_ out of here don’t you understand?” He snaps. “If you’re not gone in five-fucking-seconds I’m calling security to haul your ass out and then _you_ can explain to my dad why a former murder suspect is in his 17-year-old son’s hospital room.” The heart monitor’s beeping is getting more frantic as he rants, and he _hopes_ Derek leaves, because even if he’s talking a big game he doesn’t _truly_ want Derek to get arrested for something he didn’t do because of him. For the third time. The guilt that thought brings only makes him angrier. 

“Why don’t you get out of my fucking _life_ while you’re at it, _Alpha Hale_ ? Find someone else to do your research. I quit. You can all rot in hell for all I care.” He’s saying too much, he’s going _too far_ . If he doesn’t reign it in soon it won’t be fixable, he’s gonna say something unforgivable, and _God_ Derek just _leave,_ please. 

Thankfully, Derek does. 

Once he thinks Derek’s out of earshot he breaks into sobs. 

The nurse comes in to check on him finally. It’s not Ms. McCall, thank God. 

“It’s okay, honey. Concussions can make you really emotional.” She comforts, gently placing a hand on his uninjured shoulder. The touch burns, even through his flimsy hospital gown. He wants it off, off, _off off off offoffoffoff-_

He nods as if she’s helping. No need to take out his shit on her, she’s just trying to do her job, and unfortunately that includes dealing with Stiles.

She leaves and he’s alone again. He’s _alone_ again. He’s run off another person who maybe-kind of cared about him, or at least tolerated him. Good fucking job, Stilinski.

It’s just- He _knows,_ okay? He knows how useless he is to the pack outside research. And even that’s not a sure necessity, now that Lydia is running with wolves too. He just- he thought-

Whatever he thought, it was _wrong._ He’s a liability. The fragile little human. Even when he tries to do something _good_ , tries to _help_ , tries to protect the people he _loves_ -

He fucks it up. 

He should’ve expected he would, but it was still a surprise. Seeing Derek’s face, hearing that goddamn _lecture_ after he’d finally felt like he’d done something _right_ by the pack- it reached into his guts and tugged his lungs out. 

He’s a burden, a risk, a weak link-- he’s not even in really _in_ the pack, now that he thinks of it. No one there except _maybe_ Scott (and even that’s a pretty big _maybe_ , now that he has Allison, plus how he’s not really in Derek’s pack either) likes him. No one relies on him. He’s good for research and not much else, just there to provide moral support and comic relief. 

Well, he’s _sick_ of being a supporting character in his own fucking life. But he knows he doesn’t deserve any better than that. 

Not even his dad really likes him anymore.

Oh, fuck. His _dad._ Who’d be showing up any second now, he needs to get it the fuck _together._

20 minutes later, the Sheriff walks in with a brown bag full of greasy diner food and a tired face, and Stiles grins at him and babbles something he remembers reading about the Irish Potato Famine, since curly fries are made out of potatoes and it reminded him of it, and he’s okay. 

He’s _okay._

He has to be. 

**_vi. disorganization_ **

  
  


His life is a mess. 

So is his room.

And his backpack.

And his files.

And his research binder, which is what led to this realization. 

After a fews days of observation in the hospital and a week of absolutely no contact from the pack (including Scott, and Stiles doesn’t know if that’s on purpose or if it’s just a continuation of how things have been) Stiles decided he wanted to gather up his research binder to give to Derek since he’ll no longer be needing it. He tried to sort it into a cohesive little guide, but very, very quickly realized how chaotic it was in the first place. He was missing a printout he _knew_ he had, so he went looking through his school notes, which led him to notice how messy _they_ were, so he added them to the “to organize pile,’ and then saw how his clothes needed folding and tossed them onto the floor so he could get started, and then he thought how maybe the printout is still on his computer so he ran to sift through his files only to realized his keysmash file names aren’t helpful in the slightest and so-

Here he is. 

Sitting in the middle of his bedroom floor, surrounded by papers and clothes, with a laptop on his lap. 

He almost cries in frustration because how the fuck is he meant to do all of this? Especially with a broken shoulder and a fucked up knee?

Fuck this, Derek can figure his shit out on his own. He doesn’t need Stiles’ help, he literally said it-- sorry, _snarled_ it-- into Stiles’ face. _Fuck this._

He’s going to bed.

The stuff on the floor only gets picked up as he needs them.

**_vii. social failures and relationship problems_ **

  
  


“Stiles!” 

He’s squinting at a biology assignment and sitting on the bleachers when he hears a feminine voice call out to him from down the hall, and he turns towards it instinctively. He almost thinks, maybe, it’s Erica or Lydia, trying to save their friendship, but-

“It’s me, Heather! Remember, from grade school?” Yes, somehow he does remember. She was always nice, even to him and Scott. “I know we haven’t talked in a long time, but when I heard you got hurt I was so sad for you. But, we should catch up! I miss talking to you, you were _so_ funny when we were kids!” She exclaims brightly. The force of her smile makes Stiles’ eyes hurt. 

“Um, yeah, of course.”

“Awesome! You have free period now, right? Let’s hang out! Oh!” Heather twists around and digs in her back for a moment before emerging with a sharpie. “Let me sign your cast!”

Stiles’ cast is a full-arm cast, to keep from any part of his arm jostling the fracture. It’s also completely blank. It’s kind of embarrassing, but he still shrugs his free shoulder and lets her sign. 

“I broke my arm in 8th grade, once,” She says as she doodles a flower next to her name. “I _hated_ the cast so much. It was my right arm, too, so I could barely function.” 

“That sucks,” He winces. At least his break was on his non-dominant arm. But, that reminds him… “Hey, at least we have proper casts and antibiotics now. Before antibiotics there were a lot of people whose limbs got amputated because they broke a bone and it got infected. Antibiotics in general were a real turning point in medicine, honestly.” Stiles smiles a little; he had just been reading about this last night! “It’s like, everything got safer. Penicillin meant there was a much greater chance of survival after surgery, because before antibiotics even the most noninvasive and minor procedure had such a high risk because of infection. It kinda sucks though, because ever since then we’ve been popping antibiotics like candy and now infectious bacteria are evolving to resist it, so if we don’t find a way to deal with that we’ll be back at square one.”

He looks back at Heather, finally, and her smile is a bit strained. “That’s… really interesting, Stiles. Hey, I have to go, but I’ll see you around, okay?”

By the way she grabs her bag and hauls ass back inside, Stiles doubts it. 

He doesn’t know what exactly he did wrong, he just knows he fucked it up somewhere.

Oh well. 

**_viii. inattention_ **

  
  


Derek Hale is in his room.

_Why_ is Derek Hale in his room?

“Stiles. I was hoping I’d find you here.” Derek Hale, who’s currently standing at the foot of his bed says. 

“Well, I mean. I do live here.”

“Right. Right.” 

Derek just looks at his feet, silently. 

Stiles waits.

And waits.

And _waits_. 

_For fuck’s sake._

“Sooo… Do you need something? Or are you just gonna stare at my, admittedly, intensely fascinating carpet?” Stiles asks. 

“I. I wanted to apologize. For what I said at the hospital. I- I was worried and it was wrong of me to take it out on you like that.”

It’s stiff and it sounds intensely rehearsed but Derek Hale is _apologizing_ . To _Stiles_. He needs to mark the day on the calendar. 

Derek is still talking but Stiles has already zoned out. He doesn’t think he has a proper calendar, actually. He should get one. Maybe a wolf one? Is that too on the nose? Heh, on the _nose_ , like werewolf scenting. Maybe he should get one with foxes on it, he likes foxes. He wonders if Derek likes foxes too. If Derek likes wolves, even though he’s halfway to being one. 

Derek’s not talking anymore, Stiles knows because he’s been accidentally staring at his lips and only now realized they stopped moving. He looks expectant. Question then. 

“Um, yeah, sure!” 

“So you’ll figure out how to kill them?” Aaaand just like that, Stiles deflates like a balloon. Derek wasn’t apologizing because he felt bad, he’s apologizing because he needs something. Figures. 

Whatever.

“Sure.” Stiles says, a little less enthusiastic this time. No matter whether they like him or not, he still doesn’t want them to die fighting a big baddie he could’ve helped the pack prepare for. “Run the name by me again? Actually, I’ll find some paper, write it down.”

**_ix. lack of focus or hyperfocus_ **

  
  


His (good) leg is bouncing and he hasn’t registered a word Harris has said the entire class. His pencil is chewed to hell and back, his notes look like a warzone. He just- can’t- _focus._

His mind keeps drifting from the words on the board, and he’ll start wondering what Derek is doing, if Scott and Allison are on again or off again. Whether or not Erica found her curling iron, and if she left it at the loft without noticing. What kind of bird that bird on the tree just outside the window. You know, Stiles should get into bird watching. His fingers itch to grab his phone and google it, but if Harris caught him he’d live in detention for the rest of his life.

He forces himself to look to the front and the red marker on the whiteboard just looks like scribbles.

He sighs.

Doodles a triskelion in the margin of his notebook. Then writes “Stiles Hale” in big bubble letters surrounded by a heart, just to give into the “tween girl with a crush” cliche he’s falling into.

Things with Derek and the pack have been good lately, _so_ good. Him and Derek actually _talked,_ specifically about the shit that happened in the hospital room. He’s going to the meetings again, even when Scott skips, and Derek _smiled_ at him the other day. Plus, the betas are turning into his bffs, he knows it.

Well. They’re putting up with him as he clumsily forces himself into their lives. But he’s wearing them down for sure!

“Stilinski!” Harris yells, startling Stiles so bad he drops his pencil completely. 

“Y-Yes?” Stiles asks as he scrambles to pick up his pencil. 

“What’s the atomic weight of a Barium molecule?” 

_Fuck_. He has no fucking idea. 

“Um… Uh…”

“Please hurry up, Mr. Stilinski, we only have so long in this class.” Jesus, Harris is literally _tapping his foot_ in impatience. Stiles thought people only did that in movies.

“Um. One hundred units?”

“Nice try, Mr. Stilinski, but no. I’d appreciate it if you’d join us in the real world.” Harris sneers. 

The entire class is giggling behind their hands. 

Stiles wants to sink into the floor and die. 

It’s a wonder he makes it home without crashing, he’s so distracted. Even though he knows it’s probably a lost cause, he sits down at his desk and tries to put a dent in his history essay.

~

“Hey, Stiles. Stiles. Stiles!” Someone shouts. 

“Shhh, just gimme a minute.” He’s in the _zone_. If he stops he’ll never get it done. 

“You’ve had more than a minute, Stiles.” The voice sighs. “You haven’t eaten or drank anything in hours, just stop for a second.” 

“No, just another minute,” He says, absently. The voice is kinda hot, but still. History essay to do. 

“No. No more minutes.” Sexy voice growls into his ear, and _whoa_ , that’s nice. Then his chair being forcibly spun around, away from his laptop, and he whines at the loss before he realizes just how _close_ Derek is. 

“Oh. Hi.” 

“Hello, Stiles.” 

“When did you get here?”

Derek sighs again and scrubs a hand down his face. “Around an hour and a half ago. You’ve been completely absorbed in your essay.” 

“Oh,” Stiles responds. “Yeah, that happens. ‘s called hyperfocus, sorry.” 

Derek opens his mouth like he’s gonna say something, but before he can all of Stiles’ systems come back online at once and _holy mother of jesus fuck_ he has to piss. 

He hears Derek’s third sigh as he races out of the room, but this one is _definitely_ laced with a fond laugh, so it’s ok. 

When he gets back, Derek’s leaning over his laptop, which now neighbors a glass of water and a sandwich. Stiles stands in the doorway for a second to just take it in. Derek Hale is in his _room_ , Derek Hale is reading his _essay_ , Derek Hale brought him a _sandwich and water_ as he’s coming out of hyperfocus. 

Suddenly, Stiles is hit by the realization that he loves this man. 

“This is really good, Stiles,” said man says, startling Stiles from his reverie. “Your points all mesh well, and your facts are all solid.”

“Oh yeah?” Stiles teases back, utterly elated by his newfound knowledge that’s honestly not surprising or even that newly found. “You know a lot about history, big guy?”

Derek levels him with an unimpressed stare as he says “I’m a math credit short from a Bachelors in History with a minor in Library Science.”

_I’m going to marry this man one day_ , Stiles thinks. Wishes. Desperately hopes. 

“Oh my God, you’re a nerd! You’re such a nerd, do you wear glasses? I can see it, librarian Derek, wearing nerdy glasses and charming all the little old ladies looking for their audiobooks. Pushing the little book cart, that’s so cu-”

Holy _shit._

_Derek Hale is kissing him._

And maybe, if them pressing soft kisses into the other’s skin as they lie in Stiles’ too-small bed and just _talk_ (and somehow that’s not a euphemism _or_ a disappointment), the way Derek is so careful not to bump his bad arm (and Stiles doesn’t feel like he’s treating him like he’s weak), the way Stiles fits perfectly in the crook of Derek’s neck (and no matter what the ‘wolves say about human’s not being affected by scent, Derek smells heavenly) is anything to go by, Stiles’ wish might actually come true one day. 

**_x. low frustration tolerance_ **

  
  


“Fuck! Fuck this, it’s not getting us anywhere! I might as well be going on a motherfucking goose chase, how the _hell_ am I supposed to-”

“Hey.” 

“ _What._ ” Stiles snaps. 

God, he doesn’t _mean_ to snap at Derek. He _doesn’t_ . It’s just- he’s so stressed out. He’s been researching dark magic related to spinning wheels (the coven that just moved into town is putting girls into comas-- yep, just like Aurora) and _everything_ is about the fairytale, not anything useful. 

He’s so fucking annoyed with himself for not finding anything. Because he’s _sure_ those witches won’t stay silent for long, and who’s to say if their next victim will be Lydia, or Erica, or Allison. But, if all there is is fairytale bullshit, what’s even the _point?_

Derek’s hand comes up to hold the back of his neck, warm and grounding. Erica gets up from her seemingly comfortable position lying across Isaac and Boyd’s laps to lie on top of Stiles and forcefully shove his hand, which is hovering uselessly over his laptop, into her hair, an obvious command that he start petting. Isaac and Boyd follow, Isaac sitting criss-cross on the floor next to him and all but falling into Stiles’ side, burying his face in Stiles’ neck. Boyd sits on his other side, gathering Erica’s legs to rest on top of his and brushing his shoulder gently against Stiles’ which has been upgraded to a sling and brace instead of a cast. Even Derek gets more directly involved in their cuddle pile, letting go of Stiles’ nape in favor of sitting behind him and wrapping strong arms around Stiles’ waist. 

He’s still beyond frustrated, and way too tense to be healthy, and worried out of his mind, and still thinking that it’s all pointless, but-

Erica whispers “it’s fine, Batman, we’ve got you.” And Isaac mumbles “we’ll figure it out, don’t worry,” into his neck. And Boyd ruffles his hair and smiles at him like he’s doing good. And Derek nuzzles the back of his neck and squeezes Stiles tighter. 

Maybe it is pointless. Maybe he isn’t enough. Maybe he really will fuck everything up. 

But, maybe it’ll be okay even if that’s true. Because he’s not alone. He’s got his friends, his _family_ supporting him from all sides. Literally.

Stiles knows himself well enough to know this grand realization doesn’t make everything better all of a sudden-- he’s still insecure and anxious and his ADHD is never gonna go away-- but it _helps._ And for once in his life, he thinks it might be okay if he lets it help. 

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT numero dos: i have a stiles playlist that has nothing to do with this fic but it's pretty tight. [check it out](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0ilwevcqWyhrCXEisyI1Ps?si=sbgxH8KNTRmsb4vG74cbsQ)
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](https://oinkoikawas.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/oinkoikawas). come say hi if u wanna :3c


End file.
